


Loyalties

by Delirious21



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fingering, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, valve play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 14:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious21/pseuds/Delirious21
Summary: Ratchet decided, while the Lost Light wasn't getting blown up or attacked, to take care of some medical exams he'd been putting off. In the middle of a rather promiscuous check up, the door opened, and Drift walked in. Perfect timing.





	Loyalties

Kup was always more than willing to get his check ups. After all, Ratchet was his favorite medic. At least, that’s what he told Ratchet. Every. Damn. Time. Today was no different. The Lost Light was, oddly enough, experiencing a lul in unaccounted for disasters, and Ratchet decided to use that to his advantage and get some basic health checks done. What good were mechs with damaged trigger fingers?

Kup was last on the waitlist. Just in case he tried anything. Again. By the time Ratchet made it to Kup, the day was nearly over, and most of the crew was retiring to their rooms or Swerve’s bar. Greeting Kup with a firm handshake, he wished he could settle down with a nice cold drink. Something to take the edge off his eternally fried nerves. 

“It’s been a while, huh Ratchet?” Kup said, taking his seat on the exam table.

Taking a scan for internal specs, Ratchet scoffed. “You were here just last week. Losing your memory already?” His scan picked up a frustrating amount of engex in Kup’s tanks.

Kup chuckled. “You forget how old I am? At least I’ve still got my servos.”

“Don’t make me change that,” Ratchet grunted. He stepped closer, preparing for an armor inspection, and a servo found its way to his hip. “Kup,” he warned.

Digits dipping into sensitive inseams, the Wrecker just smirked. His other servo tugged on Ratchet’s wrist. “What, you decide you’re too good for a casual romp?” He cupped a cold codpiece. “Oh. And  _ I’m  _ the old one? You can’t get it up, can you?” 

Ratchet slapped Kup’s servos away. “I am tired,” he snapped. Unfortunately, even drunk Kup knew him and his frame too well, and just as the door opened, he struck the manual contraption to remove Ratchet’s codpiece.

Cursing, Ratchet made the briefest of optic contact with Drift as he tried to get his cover back from a chortling Kup. A chortling Kup who saw his spike twitch when Drift walked over. The near-ancient mech cleared his throat and stood, oddly sober. Ratchet glared, servos covering his junk, as Kup retreated to the door. 

“My bad,” he said. “Makes sense now.” He tossed Ratchet’s codpiece to a confused Drift and disappeared. 

Ratchet made sure to send the lock codes to the door. He squinted at Drift, waiting, but the mech didn’t pass over his detached piece. Rather, he held it up to his optics, inspecting the smooth metal. 

“Damnit, would you give me that!” Ratchet snapped. He needed to hide his growing spike, pronto. 

Drift smirked and tossed it like Kup had. When Ratchet snatched it out of the air, he took the opportunity to inspect the medic’s array. “Might be hard getting that back on if you’re worked up,” he said, helm tilting devilishly to the side. 

Ratchet exvented a hot gust of air, struggling to keep his fans from cycling on. It was embarrassing, how easily he was getting worked up. “If you aren’t going to help me, get out of here.”

Drift sidled over, removing his swords and laying them on the table as he walked, optics predatorial. “Ratchet,” he purred. “I’ve been trying to find the perfect time to ask you about our relationship. . .” Up close, he licked a slow line up Ratchet’s neck. “If that time is now. . .”

Ratchet couldn’t help but lean into the touch as Drift’s servos graced his frame, over his shoulders, deft digits tracing his jaw, slipping lower. There was a clatter as Ratchet dropped his codpiece, his servos furling at the small of Drift’s back. Lips crashing, they consumed each other, and it felt so invigorating, so fresh and  _ new _ . Ratchet keened when a servo stroked his spike, hips bucking ever slightly into the touch. 

Drift chuckled against his throat, nipping and licking wires as he worked Ratchet’s spike. He allowed his own panels to transform aside.. Slipping a knee between Ratchet’s legs, he ground against him, both gasping and reveling in the friction. 

The pleasure coiling in Ratchet’s pelvis tightened, and he thrust into Drift’s hold, now pinned against a counter. “I— ah — I’m close, Drift,” he gasped, bracing himself. 

Drift nuzzled his helm into the crook of Ratchet’s neck before pulling away, dropping to his knees. In one fluid motion, he swallowed his partner’s twitching spike.

Ratchet grit his dentae. “Damnit, Drift,” he managed. “I—!” His frame went ramrod straight as his overload bubbled over, spilling extra charge and transfluid into Drift’s intake. Ratchet bit back his moans as he thrust into the sweet suction, riding out his overload until Drift coughed and pulled off of his spike, chin slick with fluids. 

Drift straightened, servos and glossa leaving a trail of sparks up Ratchet’s sides and front. “Am I too early for my appointment?” he joked, glossa laving the medic’s jaw. “You’re so sweet.”

“Shut up,” Ratchet grumbled. His servos were clamped possessively on Drift’s aft, digits kneading the sensitive mesh. 

Drift tugged, backing them up until he was trapped between Ratchet and the examining table. Ratchet kissed rough, a chaotic desperation in his touch, and he picked Drift up just enough to perch him on the edge of the berth. Ratchet’s spike twitched against Drift’s perfect round thigh, and he bucked his hips for more traction. 

“Stirrups,” Drift groaned, servos never stopping. He reached between them to stroke Ratchet’s spike, thumbing the slit in the head. “Stretch my legs and take me,” he hissed. 

Ratchet felt eons younger, activating the stirrups, strapping Drift in, lavishing the insides of his messy thighs. Drift’s legs were stretched so well that Ratchet could see his blushing white valve winking at him, exterior node pulsing, aching for attention. He covered it with his thumb, rubbing in small circles as Drift melted. 

“F-frag! Ratchet— ah!”

He slipped two digits in, fans kicking into overdrive at the tight fit. Drift was already cycling down on his digits, urging them deeper, but he held back and teased his valve rim, tugging and pressing gasps out of him. Ratchet used his free servo to restrain Drift’s jerking hips, and he was more than appreciative of the stirrups’ strength. 

“You’re so needy,” Ratchet chuckled, finally letting his fingers slip deeper, scissoring as Drift gushed transfluid. It trickled out between his fingers and down Drift’s aft, pooling on the table. Ratchet leaned forward, pinning pelvis with pelvis, and thrust just enough for his spike to slide through that obscene mess. He gasped, and Drift writhed on his digits. 

“Ratchet,” he moaned, valve fluttering as a third digit pushed in. “Stop teasing!”

Ratchet grinned and carefully removed his digits, watching bemused as Drift writhed and whined. He raised his servo to Drift’s helm, and thrust into the air when he took two digits into his intake, glossa swirling over every joint, cleaning off his own fluids. Ratchet, entranced, watched as he took his spike in his other servo and rubbed the tip through Drift’s oversensitive folds. The sloppy moans on his digits ate away at his control, and he snapped his hips, sinking into Drift’s perfect valve. 

Drift cried out and busied himself with vigorously praising the servo in his mouth, legs trembling, back arching. Ratchet buried himself the rest of the way, cursing wildly under his breath, half out of his mind. Circling his hips, he ground against Drift’s ceiling node, the friction leaving them both hissing. 

It didn’t take long for Ratchet to start moving, pistoning his hips, driving his spike into Drift. They both clung to the berth, digging grooves into the sides as each thrust struck a new set of nodes. Electricity crackled between them, and it was all Ratchet could do to keep moving. How badly he wanted to stretch this out, take his time, savor every last sensation, but there was something running through his veins, something from his younger years, that kept his pace brutal. He reached between them and stroked Drift’s spike in time with his thrusts, admiring the transfluid beading out of the tip, smearing it around the slit and soaking up every last one of Drift’s cries for more. 

“Drift,” he gasped, all too aware of the heat coiling in his spike. “You —nngh— are so damn good.”

Under him, Drift choked on a chuckle. “Gladly.”

Thrusts sporadic, Ratchet leaned over to steal a kiss, and Drift was more than happy to reciprocate. Their glossas twisted as Drift keened into his overload, and Ratchet took advantage of the hyper sensitivity of a post-overload valve to give him another, thumb hysterically rubbing his exterior node as he arched his hips to reach his ceiling node. Drift’s digits locked on Ratchet’s shoulders, digging into the paint and metal as he screamed Ratchet’s name through his second. 

The sound of his name on Drift’s lips, the valve clenching wildly, the irresistible flood of fluids was all too much. Ratchet lurched into an overload, idly stroking Drift’s thighs as he filled the mech with his transfluid. The liquid heat filled the remaining space before squeezing out around Ratchet’s spike. 

Drift wiggled his hips, an insatiable gleam to his optics. “Pent up, huh?”

Ratchet shushed him with kisses to his chassis. “Shut up,” he grumbled. 


End file.
